None of your business
by wildechilde17
Summary: Part three of the business trilogy. Sometimes every moment is a leap of faith, especially if you both have a history.


Even with an injury he manages to stand like a little boy. He rolls his shoulders back, locks out his knees and tilts his pelvis forward just enough that he isn't a deadly marksman, he isn't a full grown man with enough rage to swallow a normal person whole, he is a little boy, smart assed and delinquent awaiting a talking to. He lifts the gauze curtain from the window, tucking his chin and looking up out at the view. If he knows she's awake he gives no indication but he rarely does. They are opposites in this. She is always on edge unless acting a part and he is never anything but this unless he is playing a role.

The silhouetting of him against the morning light does very little to hide the reopened abrasions on his shoulders and the pink slash across his lower back that mars the hard lines of trapezius, deltoid, lattisumus dorsi and the sudden indent of his iliac crest above his low hanging jeans. It says a lot about Clint Barton that half-dressed in the early morning the very obvious strength of him, dangerousness of him is so hidden by his relaxed stance.

"Morning Red," he says and leans back turning to raise his eyebrows at her without moving his hips his feet glued to the floor. His forehead wrinkles and there is light in his eyes. He looks back out of the lead lined window.

"You're awake early," she says buying time to make sense of a world where he is not just her partner and her best friend. He shrugs.

"It gets easier right? Hasn't yet."

"Nightmares?"

"Wouldn't call them nightmares. Not when they actually happened." He does not turn around even though he is obviously only pretending that there is something visible through the window to keep him there.

"You didn't wake me?" she asks and it is only partly a question and mostly a statement of concern.

"You wanna to get some breakfast?"

"Clint."

"We got distracted last night, didn't put out the room service menu."

"Clint."

"Or we could just hit the road. Grab some fruit for you and something greasy for me and just drive. Anywhere but south west."

"Clint." She sits up wrapping the sheets around her, tucking them under her arms making a sarong of sheets that smell like sex and them.

"Seriously I will keep talking Nat; I'm not in the mood."

"Oh well that's fine then if you aren't in the mood." She pulls the remaining edge of the sheet tighter and slides herself off the bed. She walks quickly and defiantly across the short distance to the bathroom and slams the door.

There is small part of her that asks why she felt the need to take the bed sheet with her, she has never been self-conscious about her body that need for modesty and privacy and shame being burnt out of her so long ago. At the same time they were burning away her ability to be a child, she supposes. She bristles against the silent question and drops the sheet on the cold tiles as if it is proof against some doubt about her strength.

She stares at herself for a moment in the mirror. The purple of her bruises are slowly shading themselves green though the thick pattern of a dropped pipe on her calf will take longer to yellow and fade. She heals red room technology or not, she heals.

Her hair is a mess, the kind of mess that only serves to remind her of the heated way it got so tangled. When she lifts her hands to comb back the curls she smells him on her skin and it annoys her. This is compromised, when even her body reminds her of him. It is her body damn it.

A soft tap at the door wakes her from the thought as she frowns down at her own form. "Tasha?"

No.

She turns on the shower, ignoring him as she steps into the whirlpool tub and tries to scrub the reminders of Clint Barton from her skin. The only tools at her disposal are a half empty bottle of body wash and shampoo and conditioner. Her toiletry kit is still in her duffel bag and the only other items in this ravaged bathroom are the pool of damp clothing on the floor that she steadfastly ignores in the same determined fashion that she refuses to linger on the curves and skin of her own body the same curves and skin that he lingered on the night before. She turns the hot water tap further hoping to burn off that which she cannot scrub away.

She steps from the tub when she has done all she can. She dries herself then her hair running her fingers through it to separate each curl before flipping the curls back over her shoulders.

Clint Barton is on the other side of that door. Clint Barton is her partner, her best friend and the only fixed point in her sky. Natasha knows him as well as she knows herself which isn't saying as much as it would for most people but more that she could say for anyone else. Clint Barton fucks women rather than talking to them. That isn't to say that he doesn't believe women are worth talking to. He has always treated Natasha and all other women, to be fair, as equals in all things and she has seen him joke, deflect or throw a punch rather than talk to men just as quickly. It is that it is his go to strategy to avoid oncoming commitment, disagreement or a truth he does not wish to acknowledge.

Natasha looks up into the mirror almost surprised by the blank look her reflection gives her in return though she rages onwards inside. She is a fool to have thought that Clint Barton would be anything other than Clint Barton now that the possibility exists that he can have sex rather than talk to her too.

"Look me in the eyes**? **Ёб твою мать! Мудак," she mutters pausing in her red mist of self-reproach only to wrap herself in the over large towel tucking it above her left breast. Another wave of irritation hits and she tugs the towel free. He has seen her naked. She is Natasha Romanoff and she will not be cowered or made vulnerable by one such as Clint fucking Barton.

She opens the door to find him standing in her way his arms braced on either side of the door frame they strain for a second, larger muscle groups flexing and veins raised under the surface of his skin. He leans over her a fraction before rocking back on his heels. "Tasha," he says softly.

Natasha hits him squarely in the solar plexus with the base of her right hand.

There will always be a joy in the way a full grown man crumples when his diaphragm stops working. She takes it and the little extra to be found in the irony that she is small and naked and he, to outside observers, is larger, well-muscled and should be a threat to her.

Clint stays on his feet despite folding in front of her. Natasha waits. It was a sucker punch after all. He draws in a haggard breath before straightening slightly and staggering away from her. It speaks to the goodness or idiocy of Clint Barton that he does not shift into fighting stance. Despite the hit he refuses to see her as a threat. Natasha can feel her lips purse with annoyance at his unwillingness to fight. She can feel her body telling her that a fight is cleaner; a fight is more honest than anything he will do instead.

"Natasha?! What the fuck?!" he growls.

"You were in my way," she answers coolly and pulls open her duffel bag.

"The fuck?"

She ignores him, pulling underwear from the open bag. As her fingers grasp a basic bra she cringes internally at the underwear she chose to wear the day before. A simple black set, black is after all useful, it shows less wear and damage, but she had chosen this set because they matched and because they were soft and feminine and she wanted to be soft and feminine with him. He had affected her decisions about underwear. Dammit.

"So you're gonna ignore me now?"

"I am not in the mood," she answers snapping the clasp of her bra into place.

He moves quickly pushing his way in front of her. His eyebrows are pushed together, his mouth a hard circle like he is blowing anger from it like smoke rings.

"You wanna go Nat, we can go. Let's do this."

"You cannot take me in hand to hand," she dismisses.

"Naaah Black Widow you don't get to throw more punches. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Quick and clean," he licks his bottom lip looking down and shaking his head a little in a way she finds infuriatingly dismissive, "No that's not on the table," He looks straight at her his eyes flashing, " You can use your fucking words like a god damn grown up!"

"Look who is talking about being a grown up."

"You don't get the high horse when you just slammed me in the gut Natasha."

"And you get to decide when we are in the mood to talk?" He throws his hands up at this and even in her anger she notices the way his bow string fingers can't help but group together like a smoker's index and middle fingers always look to hold a phantom cigarette.

"Jesus. Fucking. Sometimes a guy needs a little space."

"Space and fucking, that is all you need," she says turning her back on him again pulling a t-shirt and pants from her bag.

"What the hell does that mean?" He yells this, until now he has been speaking in his normal low, gruff voice but now she knows there is a line she has crossed. He stands close enough that she can feel the heat from his skin as she tugs the t-shirt over her head.

"It does not matter."

"Yeah well it sure as fuck looks like it does."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she spits back at him.

"Stop it Tasha! Talk to me." He grips her shoulders pulling her round to face him. She considers hitting him again but a strange lethargy seems to take root as her eyes flicker up to his face. He lowers his voice again, "God dammit it's me. It's still me."

He watches her. He is breathing a little heavier but the activity is in his eyes now and not his body. Behind their blue and the reflected grey dances emotion on a scale she feels she could never manufacture and never understand. She knows what he sees when he looks at her, the quiet way she stares back at him like he is a new mark to be studied rather than her friend.

"Yes you. You who will sleep with anything that moves. You who doesn't talk. You who just needs space."

"Did you just call me a whore?" he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like he isn't certain he should be insulted by her accusation. She forces his large hands from her shoulders.

"На воре шапка горит."

"Thief? What the?" Natasha rolls her eyes Clint's Russian has never been more than a functional one to one translation of words. He knows his cursing, he says he learned it from her but she knows that he can curse in many languages that he couldn't ask for water in. She suspects he feels getting by saves him from the commitment of really knowing a language. "Fucking idioms, what am I supposed to have stolen? What is it you think I have to be guilty about here?"

"You want to look into my eyes Clint Barton?" she seethes, "Just so you can make me silent whenever you like."

"Huh?" and there is real confusion in his blue eyes.

"I know you."

"Yeah? And what is it you know?" He crosses his arms across his bare torso and leans to his right still sparing his left knee. She wonders if he strapped it while she slept and then wishes she could strangle the part of her that has such thoughts for his health and his safety above her own.

"I know that you fuck instead of talking." She looks down again rather than having to deal with his eyes searching her face for some kind of explanation, rather than deal with his ridiculous hair still sticking up at all angles and rather than dealing with a mock display of hurt.

"We fucking right now? 'Cause I reckon it's supposed to be more fun than this," his voice takes on the tone of joking but there are shades of Clint's joking tones and this is one of the more deadly. "You gonna keep calling me a whore Natasha? Least you can do is look me in the eyes when you say it. I thought we were done with this bullshit. You said you knew I didn't just want sex from you. You said you knew." He ends on a tone suddenly pleading and an ache settles in her chest.

The way he talks about looking him in the eyes set off the flash bulb of memory, the look on his face the night before. He'd insisted he'd see her when they… the strangely exposed look he gave her when she'd sunk into him and let herself breathe again at odds with the push and pull of Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton. Natasha finds she wants nothing more than to push him away from her and get as much distance as she can from him, from SHIELD and from herself.

"And what is it you want from me?" Her voice sounds cool and even despite the roar in her own head. She looks back up at him. Men always want something from you she reminds herself. People only ever want something from you.

"Jesus. Nothing. I want nothing from you. Not like this." He steps back from her, settling himself on the bed. He pushes a thumb into the bridge of his nose like he had in Stark's tower the day after the world had almost ended.

"So we are done then."

"No we are not done then," he answers her outraged.

"Why not?"

"Because you are my best friend, you are my partner and I love you so we don't get done just because you get scared," he yells. Her hands clench by her side. Scared is weakness. She is not scared, she is angry. How dare he believe her afraid?

"I am not scared." But she hears the Black Widow slide into her voice and it confuses her. That isn't right, if she were in control, if she did not feel threatened there would be no need for the mask to descend.

"Do a damn good impression," he hisses.

"And you? You are not scared? You are not refusing to talk to me, chattering on like I will ignore that you won't let me help you," she attacks.

"'Course I'm fucking scared. I'm angry and I got no words for the other stuff swimming around in here with me… you think the solution to that's you walking out on me?"

"You do not need me," she says leaving off the coda that she wants nothing more than to not need him.

"For fuck sake stop it already. You took one shitty post nightmare conversation and ran with it. This isn't an interrogation. And you are too damn close to this to do any of that successfully and you know it." He is gripping the mattress he sits on with such ferocity that she can see it dip beneath his hands, the network of veins distinct beneath the taut surface of his skin.

"I am compromised," she admits. She recognizes the feeling that she is not entirely in control and she feels nothing but revulsion as she says the words. She is still standing with her back to the window where he'd pulled her round to look at him. She feels oddly stuck in one place wanting to leave, to fight and to fall into him all at once. He looks up at her and his face shifts, the lines on his forehead smoothing into a look of pity. She detests him for it.

"Stop it Tasha. You can be this close without being defective." He gestures between them. This is Clint Barton not Hawkeye not Agent Barton, when he is not working he is never still, his hands explaining his thoughts as much as his face sometimes more than his words. He is her contrast, she is immobile and silent. He raises his eyebrow as if asking a question then sighs, "That's not what I'm saying."

"And what do you think you are saying?"

"I'm sayin'… I'm saying we said ten words to each other before you slammed that door. Ten words aren't enough to throw all of this… all of us out the window. I told you. You think I changed my mind sometime last night?"

"I was a fool to think you would do anything else," she answers tiredly.

"What?! Just what is it I'm being accused of here?"

"Yesterday you would have talked to me."

"Yesterday!? Yesterday Natasha? We didn't talk! I watched you sleep off exhaustion and pain killers and we drove to the middle of New York City to watch an alien extradition. Then I drove until we had to stop and we didn't talk then either. Yesterday you got into the whirlpool tub with me and told me to live up to my promise and Tash we didn't talk much during that as far as I remember."

"Yesterday you would have answered me." She says though she remembers the silence, the way he looked out at the world from beneath glasses and held all his muscles tight. She hadn't asked then, she felt raw from the revelation that Agent Coulson was alive, she felt her level shifting violently beneath her feet and she hadn't spoken.

"Yesterday I was barely holding it together. Today! I'm barely holding it together."

"I could have helped."

"You were helping. Fucking hell. You were helping," he says desperately, running fingers through his own hair before standing up.

"With sex," she says. He snaps his head to the side with a quick shake like he can't believe she would say it.

"You want me to say sleeping with you was a mistake? Was bad? You're really pissing me off right now and I'm still not gonna say it. I love you. Getting to be that close to you, sleeping with you is nothing but awesome." He sucks air in between his teeth. "This, this stupid argument and you calling me a slut and a thief not so much but last night…. Jesus Natasha… last night." He comes closer stretching his hand out to her face. He hesitates for a moment looking for some sign that it is okay to approach.

"Last night was what?" she asks the edge gone from her voice. He runs his thumb down her cheek ducking his chin so he can see her eyes.

"Last night wasn't running away." He pulls her in, tugging her forward with one hand on her waist, "I am not gonna let you run away now," he finishes into her hair, his hot breath against the crown of her head.

"You are not a thief," she says quietly crumpling into him. He smells earthy and a little like the lily of the valley bath wash from the night before but most of all he smells like Clint Barton and she has trouble stopping herself from breathing him in. He pulls back with a smile in his eyes that does not yet reach his mouth and she can tell he believes he has come away a victor.

"Aw well I was once or twice a long time ago…. but the whore comment still stands?"

She shrugs. He chuckles at her tiredly.

"And something about a hat? Honestly Tasha that better have been a Russian saying, sounded like I was being accused of some eastern bloc equivalent of a donkey show."

"How are you a spy?" she asks incredulous that even now he can so quickly slide into such inane chatter.

"I'm not. I keep telling you I'm a solider and a carnie. You're the spy." His arms are warm around her and she does not bother to respond resting her forehead against his shoulder. He pauses a moment and then tugs at the hem of her t-shirt his large knuckles brushing against the skin of her thigh. "Can I kiss you now? I'm asking 'cause you have a mean punch and I'm a little sore."

"You still want to kiss me?"

"Romanoff I always want to kiss you. I don't want to talk about my dreams right now but I'll always want to kiss you." She pushes back at the coldness that response brings to her skin deciding to use her words like a god damn grown up instead.

"And when you do want to talk about them?" She pulls away as she asks, her eyes narrow a little watching his face for all the micro-expressions she has been trained to see.

"Then I'll find my partner and make her listen to all the moaning and angst I got." His voice takes on a sing song quality when he says it through a grin she knows all too well. He stops and frowns. "Is that what you're worried about? Is that? Huh."

"And that means?"

"Nothing changes except I get to do this remember?" His calloused fingers tilt her chin up towards him and kisses her.

She feels no less broken and no more fearless and yet she takes another step towards him as if it were a leap of faith, a leap of faith she may have to take every day from here on out.


End file.
